


Wake up, Jamie!

by Xabisgirl



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-30
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2019-09-02 11:17:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16785898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xabisgirl/pseuds/Xabisgirl
Summary: Jamie is clueless, Gary has known all the time





	Wake up, Jamie!

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this some time last year. I used to read and write SeX (Stevie and Xabi) back in the good old LiveJournal days, but came across this pairing and it prompted me to write again. I’m now writing a Lovralah fic, because the world needs more of those two together, but thought I’d post this.

Jamie was feeling introspective. It was an unusual feeling, he admitted. A life spent kicking balls (and opposing players, not always by accident) didn’t lend itself to self-examination. Sleep, get up, train, eat, rest, play; rinse, repeat. But since he’d retired, and especially since he’d landed the cushy Sky pundit job, he’d hardly stopped examining his feelings, for fuck’s sake. And at the moment, he was feeling positively discombobulated and he couldn’t work out why.

If he thought back over the last few days, perhaps he could discover the cause. Saturday was unlikely to be it, he thought. He’d watched a couple of matches, and Liverpool had had a good win, their new wonder kid Mo Salah scoring a couple of goals to add to his already impressive total. Sunday he’d spent travelling down to London ready for Monday Night Football, checking into the usual hotel and dropping into Sky’s Isleworth headquarters to start prepping for the show. Neville wasn’t there, something about a family emergency, so Jamie had worked on his own, watching and analysing the weekend’s games.

Then Monday was more of the same, with the addition of a trip to makeup and the beginning of the pre-show tension as 7 o’clock grew nearer. Still no sign of Neville, and by 5 the producers were calling other ex-pros to stand in for him, eventually scaring up Chris Sutton - trust him to be at a loose end on a Monday night. The show had gone smoothly, with Jamie especially enjoying analysing the Liverpool goals and, possibly even more, some poor Man Utd defensive play. It was a shame Neville hadn’t been there, Jamie would have loved to have teased him about the soft goals his team had let in. He would have continued the ribbing in the pub afterwards, with Gary getting crosser and redder of face than he ever allowed himself to do on tv. Jamie smiled to himself as he pictured it...hang on, was that the problem? That he hadn’t seen Gary Neville, the little Manc git (as Stevie had called him when Jamie told him who he’d be working with )?

There had certainly been no love lost between the Liverpool and Man Utd players back in the day.It wasn’t only the fans who viewed the fixture as one of, if not the most important of the season, and the matches had often had a real edge to them. But working together on MNF had changed things. Gary had been understanding of Jamie’s nerves and tried to put him at ease -at least off-screen. He hadn’t held back on air though, and they’d had some real battles,to the delight of the producers, who’d talked about “chemistry” and “ratings gold”. Over time, a real respect had grown between them and, yes, a genuine friendship.

But something still bugged Jamie. He no longer saw Stevie practically every day, but that didn’t give him this weird - empty? - feeling. He was trying to analyse it further when his phone buzzed with an incoming text. The skip of his heart when he saw the name “Gary N” was undeniable, but he suppressed it in favour of reading the message. “Hey, good show! Sorry I missed it, hope to be back next week, see you then, G”. Before he could think too much about it, Jamie thumbed a reply, “Yeah, missed you. Hope everything ok with you Jx”. As soon as the text left his phone, he wanted to call it back. “Missed you”?? “Jx”?? What was he, a 12-year-old girl?

Sleep did not come easily that night, although Jamie must have dozed off at one point as he woke suddenly, rock hard and with the thrill of arousal tingling in his blood. He groped for the contents of the dream he’d been having before he woke...he was standing with his jeans unzipped...his cock deep in a warm, wet, tugging mouth that felt so so good...he looked down on a head of dark but tending to silver hair...unconsciously he dragged his fingers through the soft waves at the nape of the neck...moaned almost unwillingly, his breath coming in shorter and shorter pants as his cock sank deeper into the heat of the demanding mouth...”oh god, don’t stop”...”oh fuck”...”oh”...until it was just a wordless prayer and he came, more strongly than he could ever remember coming before. And as his orgasm shot through his nerve endings like falling fireworks, a pair of brown eyes, pupils blown, looked up at him and he realised, as happens in dreams, that he’d known from the start whose mouth was on him, and whose hair his hand was tangled in, and that was why he’d come so hard.

“Oh shit” he muttered, the truth that his sub-conscious must have known bursting in on his conscious mind. He wanted Gary, Gary Neville, Manc git as he was. He explored this new reality, gingerly, like a tongue probing an aching tooth. He wanted what? Well, Gary to suck him off, clearly. Would he....? A vision of himself on his knees wrapping his mouth around Gary’s hard cock flashed across his brain, jolting nerves still tingling from his dream. Well, that answered that question. A series of distracting images flicked through his brain, each more graphic than the last...him and Gary naked, locked together in a fierce embrace...a deep kiss, Gary nipping Jamie’s lower lip gently between his teeth...Jamie reaching down and stroking Gary’s erect cock, rubbing faster and faster in time with Gary’s moans...burying himself hard into Gary’s tight arse, as he moaned, “fuck me, Jamie”...Gary fucking him from behind and reaching around to Jamie’s cock...

Oh. It seemed he wanted from Gary everything one man could give another. He lay, stunned by the realisation, but also with the sense of puzzle pieces falling into place. That was why he’d felt so discomfited recently, so ill at ease in his own skin. And was it purely physical, he asked himself, the time for honesty now well overdue. Certainly Gary was one of those rare men who takes time to grow into his looks. When he played, he’d needed to keep his body fat down to a level that made his features look pinched and drawn, but the scant half stone he’d put on in retirement suited him, had softened and relaxed his face. Regular Spanish holidays kept his tan topped up, improving on his former English pallor. Even his rapidly greying hair suited him, softening the harsh contrast between hair colour and skin tone. Jamie admitted to himself that he even found endearing the anxious crease down the centre of Gary’s forehead and the vein that pulsed at his temple when he was agitated by a great goal or, more likely, an egregious defensive error. Did that vein pop when Gary became excited for other reasons, he wondered. And would he ever find out?

But actually it was Gary’s personality that had taken Jamie by surprise as he got to know him better. The way he was unfailingly polite to the women in the canteen, the makeup girls, bar staff, drivers, just about everyone he came in contact with every day. But at the same time, the way he demanded perfection from all on the show, to make it the best it could be. The way he sparred with Jamie on and off air, giving as good as he got until Jamie came up with a zinger that made Gary giggle, yes giggle, in spite of himself. And the razor sharp football brain that had practically redefined punditry and analysis, making Shearer and co on Match of the Day look staid and out of touch, and making Jamie himself up his game to keep up.

Bloody hell, Carragher, you’ve got it bad, he thought. How was he going to look Gary in the eye next time he saw him? Surely Gary would see how he, Jamie, felt and what? Pity him? Be repulsed? Dare he hope that Gary reciprocated his feelings? Jamie didn’t know which he was more scared of, that Gary felt the same way or that he didn’t. The puzzle might have been solved, but now he had even more questions without easy answers. Well, that was a problem for another day. Right now his hand reached for his cock as his mind conjured up a compliant and naked Gary stretched out beneath him...

::::::::::::

Gary Neville loved Jamie Carragher. There was no point denying it, it had been true since the first match they’d played against each other. One look at that face, nearly as scarlet as the jersey beneath it, screaming out commands to the rest of the back four, giving his all for his team, and Gary had known that here was a man whose passion for football matched his own. If only he hadn’t been a Scouse bastard. If Gary had been a more poetic man, he might have told himself “My only love sprung from my only hate”, but as it was he felt it was actually fucking tragic. He’d had some hope of at least getting closer to Jamie on England trips, but one or other of them was usually injured or dropped, and anyway the team rivalry was never superseded by national pride, or not enough anyway.

So it was with mixed emotions that he’d heard the news of Jamie’s new role alongside him on Monday Night Football. Happy to spend so much time with Jamie, but tormented by being so close to what he wanted so much but could barely even dream he might have. Of course the bastard was still as fit as fuck, hadn’t put on an ounce in retirement. Still those long lean thigh muscles that Gary couldn’t watch working in the gym without picturing Jamie’s legs wrapped round his waist, driving hard into him... Still the boyish good looks, often split by a goofy grin: still the passion for the game, expressed now in fierce argument rather than crunching tackles that Gary could swear he still felt in his legs.

The haircut was a little more trendy now, the suits a lot sharper, even the guttural Scouse accent had been softened and slowed for television. But Jamie was still exactly what Gary wanted, now and always. He’d grown used to his fate, the longing was now just part of him, like the colour of his eyes or the slightly crooked shape of his nose. Yes, it was harder to bear at some times than others, during their mutual gym sessions for example, but at least the Sky gym had private cubicles instead of communal changing rooms. Gary didn’t think he could have stood watching Jamie undress, sweat trickling down his hard-muscled back to the crease of his bum...in fact, he’d often put the privacy of the cubicles to good use, feverishly palming his erection to a hasty climax, biting his towel to keep from moaning aloud as he pictured Jamie on all fours in front of him, his arsehole puckered invitingly...

Truth be told, there’d been no family emergency, or at least not one that should have kept him from being at Jamie’s side that weekend, but he’d been glad of the excuse for a break, a chance to gird his loins (ha!) to face him again as a mate, a rival, a fellow pundit. It was just his longing had hit especially hard the previous week. Jamie had come in tanned and relaxed from a week away, wearing a tight blue tshirt that outlined his six-pack and biceps and accentuated the blue of his eyes. He’d also had a recent haircut and Gary just knew how furry-soft it would feel if he rubbed his fingers against the direction of the hair growth, like the plush fur of a teddy bear. Christ, that was when he knew he needed a break, comparing Carra to a cuddly toy, for fuck’s sake. Wish he was my cuddly toy, he couldn’t help thinking, imagining snuggling up in bed with him. But then in reality, there wouldn’t be much soft about Jamie, his body was all muscle and bone, and then Gary was off again, envisaging running his fingers down the ridge of muscle along Jamie’s back to his tight round bum cheeks, pulling him closer, against his straining cock, dry-humping against his taut lower stomach until he was begging Jamie to fuck him or suck him, anything to relieve the terrible, awful, wonderful longing.

It was in a futile attempt to reach out to Jamie somehow that he’d sent him the text message, hoping it struck the right matey tone and despising himself for his weakness as soon as he’d sent it. He stared at his phone in surprise when nearly immediately a text pinged back. “Missed you”. “Jx”. What the fuck did that mean? He’d never dared add a x to any text he sent to Jamie. Guys just didn’t do that, did they? Well, Becks would, he supposed, but then the normal rules never seemed to apply to Goldenballs. Curse the man (Jamie, not Beckham), now Gary would spend the week turning over every possible meaning of that one little letter.

He started by imagining that Jamie meant it literally - a kiss, soft and shy to start with, exploring each other’s mouths, gently running tongues over lips and teeth, touching only in that one place, not daring to press body against body. Then they’d break off to look into each other’s eyes, wordlessly asking and answering unspoken questions. Then their bodies would come together at last as their lips locked again. He’d feel Jamie’s strong arms wrapped round him, have to tilt his head up to meet the taller man’s kiss. By this point in his reverie, his cock was so hard it hurt and he took hold of it, pretending for the thousandth time it was Jamie’s hand that stroked him, slowly at first and then faster and faster and harder and harder until he came in a starburst of pleasure. Fuck, he wanted that man so badly. How was it possible such desire could be unrequited? Surely it burned so brightly it had to kindle an answering fire. Was that what had prompted the treacherous “x”? Gary stared at his phone as though he could divine Jamie’s meaning with the power of his concentration.


End file.
